


In the Silhouette of a Dying World

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-01
Updated: 2009-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Things get complicated when Dean is turned into a vampire, but in the end, Sam will do whatever it takes to be with him. *slight darkfic*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** A big thanks to gestaltrose for betaing this for me!

“Kill me,” Dean pleads, fingers twisting into Sam's shirt as the younger man tries to flee the sound of Dean's voice. “ _Please, Sammy._ ”

 

Sam doesn't even try to stop the tears that are streaming down his face. “Don't you ever ask that of me, Dean,” he says. “Don't you fucking do it.”

 

Dean lets his hands drop to his sides. There is a pained noise trying to escape the confines of his throat, but he pushes it down. “I can't do this.”

 

“You have to.” Sam says firmly.

 

They don't talk for the rest of the night, and Sam pointedly pretends to be asleep when Dean slips out the door a few hours before sunrise.

 

 

 

 

Sam has gotten used to hunting without Dean. He did it for months while Dean was in hell; learned to deal with the fact that there was no one covering his back. But _living_ without Dean? Sam doesn't think he will ever get used to that.

 

_“Why are you doing this?”_

_“It's for the best.”_

_“Don't go.”_

_“You take care of yourself, Sammy.”_

_“Don't you fucking leave me!”_

_“I'm sorry, Sam, but I can't do this. I don't love you anymore. I don't love anything.”_

 

Sam wonders when his brother turned into such a fucking liar.

 

 

 

 

“I wish I could see you in the sunlight,” Sam whispers, trailing his fingers through Dean's short hair. “Just one more time. You always looked good with a tan.”

 

Sam is expecting Dean to make a smart ass comment about always looking good. Instead, Dean flinches and looks away. “Sorry.”

 

“For what?” Sam's hand stills.

 

“I can't be what you need,” it's mournful, like Dean has known it all along, but never fully acknowledged it before.

 

Sam places featherlight kisses along his brother's jaw. “Dean, you are _everything_ I will ever need.”

 

 

 

 

“Have you found anything?” Sam asks into the phone, his answer coming in the form of a resigned silence long before Bobby replies.

 

“No,” the word echoes around Sam's head like a taunt. “But I'll keep looking.”

 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam sighs.

 

“Sam? Just be careful,” Bobby warns. “You ain't the only one looking for him.”

 

Sam's hand clenches around the phone. He doesn't need to look behind him to see the corpse of the dead hunter. The blood caked beneath Sam's fingernails serves as a testament of its presence. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

“Look at me!” Dean screams, hands and face smeared into a disquieting shade of crimson. “I'm a monster!”

 

Sam cups Dean's face, eyes open and honest and full of love. “I _am_ looking, Dean,” he whispers. “I only see my brother.”

 

 

 

 

Sam searches everywhere for Dean, feels like he should be able to find him, no matter what. Like the bond of blood and need and love should be enough to guide him to his wayward brother, but Sam's never had to search far for Dean before. He's always been able to count on Dean being _right there_ for whatever Sam needs.

 

Dean doesn't want to be found this time. Sam keeps looking anyway.

 

 

 

 

“You have to eat, Dean,” Sam says, so low it's barely a whisper. “You're starving to death.”

 

“I can't die,” Dean shoots back.

 

“Dean, please...”

 

“I'm not going to kill somebody, Sam!” Dean shouts. “Too many people have died to keep me alive. I won't let anyone else.”

 

“I don't want to lose you,” Sam says, rubbing his thumb across Dean's cheek. Too pale, too thin, too fragile.

 

“You won't,” Dean promises, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

 

Sam wants to believe him. He wants to think there is still some hope left for them, but Sam isn't naive enough to think their story can possibly have a happy ending. They began in a pit of blood and darkness and pain, and that is where they will finish.

 

Sam goes out after that, comes back a few hours later. He holds out the container of pig's blood to Dean, the movement both a plea and a promise. Dean looks trapped and hollow and ready to collapse, but he gives a slight nod in answer.

 

Sam sits with him as he chokes the whole thing down. There is something like shame in Dean's eyes when he looks at Sam. His mouth is stained red and his eyes are blown black. He moves to duck his head, but Sam grabs his chin.

 

He presses his lips to Dean's, kisses him hard and hungrily until he thinks he can draw that look from Dean's eyes. He wants to create a vacuum with his lips and his love that pulls out every broken piece of Dean; wants to swallow all that pain and put it back together, in the shape of something as pure and beautiful as his brother. “I don't want to lose you,” he repeats.

 

“You won't,” Dean promises again. This time there is the smallest waver of truth in his voice, and Sam smiles. He feels like he's been given something to hold on to.

 

 

 

 

“I'm going to burn this world to the ground,” Sam says, watching the angel with angry, yellow eyes. “I will rip apart everything until he has nothing left to hide behind.”

 

“I know,” Castiel replies, head down as he kneels at Sam's feet. It's a move of submission not lost on Sam, and he threads a hand through Castiel's hair in acknowledgement.

 

“Then why are you here?” he asks, voice softer now.

 

Castiel places a hand on Sam's calf, ignoring the younger man's pained hiss. “He needs you. Find him quickly.”

 

Sam kneels until he is level with the angel. “Look at me,” he commands, and Castiel answers it without hesitation. Sam looks him in the eyes as he rips the grace from Castiel's chest. “You'll die like the rest of them.”

 

Human, vulnerable, Castiel clings to Sam's shoulders. When Sam sends him to Hell, he hasn't decided if it is a gift or a punishment. Perhaps it is both.

 

 

 

 

Dean is lying pale and limp on the cool concrete of the alley floor and Sam lets out a half-pained, half-relieved cry of, “Dean!”

 

Dean is cold and clammy under his hands, and he whispers, “please don't die” like a mantra. Dean's pulse is a soft, fluttering thing when he presses a finger to it, and it reassures him only slightly. Sam notices the streak of red against Dean's lips, flaking and faint, but he can't bring himself to think of what it means.

 

Dean's pulse is fading with every moment that passes and Sam is crying and pawing at him and whispering endearments against his skin. There is nothing but silence under Sam's fingers and he presses a kiss to Dean's lips, tastes the blood there, and lets it fill him with hope.

 

Dean's eyes flutter open, even as Sam feels no heartbeat in his chest. “Dean,” he rasps. “Dean, oh god, I thought—I thought I—“

 

“Sam?” Dean's voice is cracking, barely coherent. “I didn't want to swallow. Sam, I—“

 

Sam shushes him. “It's okay,” he says. “It's okay, baby. I've got you. We'll figure this out.”

 

 

Some nights, Sam thinks it will kill him; the power of the unknown.

 

Dean is somewhere out there, alone in the world and constantly on the run. Hiding from hunters, hiding from demons, hiding from _Sam_.

 

Sam knows he's not dead. He would feel it in his bones if anything ever happened to his brother. He has Dean in his heart, mind, soul, blood, and flesh. Dean surrounds everything in him, takes up so much space inside of Sam that there is no room left for anything else. Feeling Dean comes as easily to Sam as breathing.

 

No, Dean is alive. Hiding behind some pillar constructed from desperation and loss, just biding his time until the day comes when everyone stops looking for him.

 

Sam idly wonders who Dean is running from more: the people that want to kill him, or the people that want to love him.

 

 

 

 

Dean is rocking into Sam, slow and sweet and perfect. Sam is moaning his encouragements and pushing himself down to meet Dean's thrusts.

 

There is nothing but them in this moment. Two bodies connecting, two souls gliding over each other like waves in the ocean. Nothing exists outside of this perfect bubble of _nowgodyes_ and Sam wants to feel like this everyday of his life.

 

Sam is teetering on the edge of release. He throws his head back, the tan column of his throat exposed as his climax rips through him. Dean makes a sound that is pure anguish as he involuntarily mouths Sam's pulse point.

 

“Do it, Dean,” Sam groans, fisting his hand in Dean's hair. Some small, distant part of his mind recognizes the offer for what it is: a death sentence. But this was _Dean_ and Sam trusted him with every fiber of his being. “Come on, baby. I want you to.”

 

Dean is still thrusting into Sam, some small need unfulfilled that is keeping him from coming. He hesitates only a few seconds before he slips his fangs into Sam's neck, easy and painless as if his skin were made of butter. There is a primal howl that reverberates in his chest as the first drops of Sam's blood hit his tongue and his hips still as he pumps sticky come into Sam's inviting heat.

 

Sam writhes underneath him. His dick jumps as he comes again, harder and longer than than the last. Every nerve is tingling and pulsing, set afire with a pleasure so raw that Sam's sure it's going to kill him.

 

Dean's fingers are clenching against Sam's biceps, tightening and loosening like he can't decide what to do with them. The air is filled with the of the smell of blood, sex and desperation. Dean's lapping at Sam's neck greedily, lost in the texture and taste of all that is Sam. He doesn't ever want to pull away, knows Sam wouldn't ask him to. When he finally does, Sam's pale and unconscious.

 

He breaks every speed limit from the motel to the hospital.

 

That is the last time he lets himself make love to Sam.

 

 

 

 

Dean's standing at the edge of the world, watching the plumes of smoke devour the sky. Everything is a haze of red and orange and black, and the last embers of life are swirling around Dean in a storm of dying agony. Sam thinks he's never looked more beautiful.

 

“Dean,” he breathes. It's a small noise, barely audible over the cacophony of a bleeding world, but Dean turns towards it nonetheless. It's a sound of pain and supplication, spoken like the most wonderful secret ever told. A holy word, one Sam couldn't bear to hear anyone else utter after his brother left him.

 

“You found me,” Dean says, unneeded.

 

“I told you I would,” Sam replies.

 

Dean makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. “You've killed everything, Sam,” he says sadly. “You've bled the Earth dry of life and love.”

 

“No,” Sam whispers. “As long as there is you and me, there will _always_ be love.”

 

“I missed you,” Dean murmurs, reaching out to touch Sam's cheek. It's good to feel Sam beneath his fingertips, like home and love and happier times. “I wanted to come back to you so many times, but I...” He drops his hand.

 

Sam smiles, tilting his head up. The sun is a silhouette behind the smoke and ash, creating an orange ring that can be seen through the layers of destruction, but sheds no light on the world below. “You can come back to me now,” Sam says. “I gave us what we needed.”

 

Dean makes an inquisitive sound.

 

Sam cups Dean's face in his sooty, calloused hands and kisses him. Fifty years hadn't changed the feel of his lips on Dean's. Sam is sure no amount of time apart could dampen the rush of warmth and love that pools in his soul, springing forth like a tangible force to settle between their joined mouths. “Hope,” he answers, when they break apart. He gestures to the outline of the sun—the very thing that tried to tear them apart after Dean's turning. “I gave us hope.”

 

“Those clouds won't last forever, Sammy,” Dean says, leaning into Sam's touch with a needy desperation. “Sooner or later, there will be nothing left to keep the flames going.”

 

“Then we'll build the world back up,” Sam replies. “And burn it down all over again.”


End file.
